Reformist Generations – Part Two

The Shadows of the Past

The House, National Service
Debate

“Mr Speaker, there is no doubt that
the introduction of National Service transformed the provision of
quality education and healthcare in the Republic, and I think we all
understand that a certain ruthlessness was required in the early days
to manage the transition between systems.” Richard Buckingham said,
addressing a sparsely occupied House. It was no longer called the
House of Commons, just the House. The House of Lords had been
disbanded, and the single chamber was a legislative debating chamber
where the President’s policies were discussed line by line. The
Christian Democrats had a huge majority, so few things were ever in
doubt, but like many members Richard took his job seriously. The
actual wording of any legislation was crucial to its implementation,
and every now and again they got the chance for a proper debate and
to make a difference. “But times have changed, and despite the
amendments proposed to the National Service Bill, I propose that we
suggest some alternative measures. Fixed service periods should end
regardless of the matrimonial prospects of the Sister concerned, as
long as the Sister wishes to leave and there are suitable family
members willing to take responsibility for her at home. I also
question why no communication is allowed between parents and
daughters during their National Service? What are we so afraid of?
These girls are earning God’s love, and the sheer severity of their
separation from the secular world makes it feel more like a prison
sentence than a service. I would humbly ask the secretary of state
for Health and Education to look at these issues...in fact I have
drafted a series of amendments for his consideration and I would like
to propose that he considers them before finalising this bill before
the House.”

Home Sweet Home

“Open,” Miss Archer said a little
more firmly the second time. Ophelia was nervous, and reluctant,
although she had given in to the rest of the dressing process without
any fuss. She had accepted that she needed the diaper as her strong
medication seemed to disagree with her and the mittens because Miss
Archer told her it was the law, and her hands could be seen, but as
the muzzle would be hidden behind her mantle, the child did not want
to accept it. In any other circumstances Miss Archer would have
paddled the girl, or employed her punishment chip, after forcing her
into the muzzle, but her instructions were to handle her gently
unless she had no alternative. “Ophelia dear, every maiden is
muzzled here; you must obey our laws...now open please like the niece
of the President you are.”

Ophelia obeyed that time. She knew
the laws. She knew her relatives could not avoid them, as she was
sure other people did elsewhere, because she was the President’s
niece. Miss Archer had explained those things. During her hours
sitting helplessly in bed, Miss Arched had talked and talked, about
Britain, about modesty and piety, and about the decency laws. She had
learned the history of her family in great detail, although she knew
a lot of it already, and she was reminded how important her name was
to the British people. It seemed ridiculous to her, as the daughter
of an exile living on the beach in Skiathos, but she was the
granddaughter of James Miller, the long serving foreign minister, and
the niece of the First Lady, and therefore the President himself,
perhaps the most famous ever convert to the cause. Miss Archer told
her a lot about her aunt, things she had partially heard before but
never the real details. Auntie Mena had been a brilliant student too.
She had won a scholarship to Oxford, the highest possible academic
achievement for a school girl, although as that coincided with
females being excluded from British universities she had been unable
to accept it. She had been planning to go to the Sorbonne after that,
just like Ophelia, before she met and fell in love with Alistair
Forbes. As the muzzle closed around her teeth and gums, and snapped
together, pinning down her tongue, Ophelia thought about her aunt
choosing a muzzle and mittens over her education at the Sorbonne. It
did not make sense. Why would anyone do that? But Ophelia knew she
was different, of course. She was only there to help Angus, and after
that she would be gone. So she tried to pull herself together. It had
all happened so quickly but she always knew that she would have to
abide by British laws. She understood that she could not embarrass
her uncle. She stood still and let Miss Archer dress her. It would
not be forever. She had to be as brave as little Angus was and trust
her family.

Ophelia had no idea how people like
her aunt lived like that all the time. Her corset hurt, although Miss
Archer assured her that she had hardly laced it at all, and then she
was encased in basically two layers of undergarments, the first close
fitting silk and then flannel draws, like Victorian bloomers, and a
padded jacket, ostensibly to protect her dress from any abrasion with
the corset, before layers of petticoats and finally a velvet gown. It
was unbelievably heavy on her shoulders. Even as Miss Archer stooped
to button her into soft leather boots, Ophelia just stood there
trying to hold herself straight, and it was a real effort, forcing
her to concentrate. But that was not all, of course. She still had to
suffer a bonnet and cloak, which in itself was almost as heavy as a
second gown, and finally her first mantle. Once that was in place her
vision became clouded, like looking at life through lace curtains.

“Oh my dear, you look lovely.”
Miss Archer sighed, smiling kindly. It was not an outright lie. Her
charge was dressed in an exquisite gown and cloak, but her posture
was terrible. No trained guardian would ever mistake her for a lady.
Not without a lot of training at any rate. But the girl was not
expected to appear in public, Miss Archer reminded herself, as she
guided Ophelia down endless corridors to a side entrance. The
limousine was waiting for them there, to take them straight to
Buckingham Palace.

Ophelia could not do any sight-seeing
as Miss Archer pulled her blinding mantle over her. It was just the
done thing for a young lady of her class, the guardian assured her,
but she could not protest, even if she wanted to. It was a
disconcerting feeling more than anything else. She was denied her
hands, her voice and now her sight, just like that, as if those
senses were wasted on her, and she had no possible use for them, but
she realised that she was totally reliant on Miss Archer. Britain to
her was an exotic land, a place learned about in books and on the
television screen, so different from her own life. She was always
interested in it because of her background, but she had not thought
about what life was really life. Women being covered for their
modesty was not an alien concept, because many countries and cultures
practised some sort of veiling upon occasions. Greek women often
covered their hair for Church out of respect, Catholic nuns covered
their hair and even wore face veils in some orders and everyone was
familiar with Muslim traditions. But Ophelia had never thought about
what it was really like to live like that as a person, cut off from
the world.

Then Miss Archer removed the blinding
mantle, and Ophelia got her first view of Buckingham Palace.

Chelsea Baraclough opened her mouth
as wide as she could for Miss Walker, without being asked, her eyes
smiling as she was muzzled ready to go out. Miss Walker was like a
second mother to her, having been with the family since her older
sister was born, and she never had to tell the girls anything twice.
They loved her, and she loved them, as much a part of the family as
anyone. Chelsea did not find that unusual, or strange. It was
perfectly normal to her, as was the life of a maiden, and leaving the
house without her muzzle was almost unthinkable. Indoors it was very
different, unless they had visitors, when propriety and etiquette
demanded a certain level of discipline. It was a happy home. Neither
girl had attended school after puberty and they both helped their
mother and Miss Walker look after their grandfather and young George,
who attended a good prep school in Eastbourne. They were not rich, or
poor, but something comfortably in-between, and both Chelsea and
their sister expected their grandfather to find them suitable
husbands before they were twenty five, when having a guardian would
no longer be allowed to defer their national service, just as he had
done for their mother. In fact, even the death of their father,
although Chelsea thought of it as the only sad blemish on her life,
had helped secure their rural idyll, because the insurance money was
a nice supplement to Hugh Blackstone’s pension, since he had
finally been persuaded to retire.

Chelsea was not wearing velvet to
spend the afternoon with her friends. Each of the Blackstone women
had at least three velvet gowns with all the usual matching
accessories, but they were saved for best, as they represented a
considerable financial investment, something Hugh Blackstone was
loathe to regularly consider, although he only pretended to be
miserly. Chelsea was wearing a substantial cotton instead of velvet,
in a suitably modest shade of dark blue. It was hard wearing and very
easily washable, which pleased Miss Walker, and quite respectable,
which pleased her mother. The whole family were eminently
respectable. They were stalwarts of the local Church, and active in
the village community. In all regards, Hugh Blackstone had ensured
that his family abided by the laws of the land, regardless of his
personal opinions. Miss Walker was not a qualified guardian of
course, but by the time Kieran Radcliffe changed the laws concerning
guardian training she had enough years under her belt to pass muster.
Hugh Blackstone’s marriage, whilst abrupt in terms of courtship,
was real enough, and the family lived quietly and without fuss, never
causing anyone any trouble, least of all themselves.

“Be good for Miss Cameron, dear.”
Miss Walker told Chelsea as she draped her blue cloak around her
shoulders. Chelsea’s eyes shone above her mantle, and she curtseyed
rather well, used to the requirement. It was not a strain for her;
she respected her guardian and her elders and betters. Miss Cameron
would take her and her friend Juliette to more friends in the
village. The guardians liked their charges to socialise, and Chelsea
expected a little bible study before some time to sew and chat. She
was a typical Reformist maiden, happy enough with her lot in life.

Hermione Greening stood beside Miss
Lewis, examining the display of ribbons in the family store. Her
eldest daughter stood beside her, but she was blinded and would not
be consulted, even though she would probably use the ribbons. Mr
Greening had kept Miss Lewis on after he married the then Hermione
Slade, and his instructions to the guardian were always exactly the
same. He owned the major department store in the small city of
Meadvale, truly the epicentre of Reformism, and as such he had a
position in the community. He expected his wife and children to
enhance that reputation, and maintain strong relations with the
leading lights. Her father was well connected, and Hermione was
required to make the most of the friendships she brought to the
marriage, as well as cultivating more. Both Hermione and Eleanor, her
nineteen year old daughter, wore the finest velvet gowns sold in the
store. Oliver Greening had exclusive arrangements with several
designers, and that included discounts for his own family, so no
expense was ever spared on their costumes.

Hermione had accepted her fate, long
ago. She could not defy her father, not in a Reformist state. She did
not love Oliver but she could cope with his physical demands, and she
was not stressed anymore. Her father was right, she did not miss
that, and she had found a sort of peace in Meadvale. Not exactly
happiness, but certainly peace.

Catherine Baraclough stopped writing
and looked up, pen in hand, searching for the right phrase. It was a
typical afternoon in Alfriston, when she did not have any
arrangements. Her grandparents liked to sit in the conservatory and
bicker, whilst her mother preferred to potter in her kitchen, and
Catherine usually wrote. Not just letters, but stories and essays
too, a creative outlet that she found much more satisfying than the
sewing which was her public pastime. Like her sister, she was wearing
the dark blue cotton gown, and as they were alone she was not in her
mittens or muzzle. She would not have minded being in her muzzle if
it was required of her, but she would have resented the mittens, as
it would stop her writing. Miss Walker insisted on her and Chelsea
doing at least an hour of bible study every morning and then she
would be properly restricted, but she valued her solitary afternoons.
So, it was a surprise, although a pleasant one, when her grandfather
stomped into the drawing room, as always using his stick as more of a
weapon of mass destruction than for balance.

“Damn chair, someone has moved it
again, Catherine.” He grumbled, winking at her.

“Probably me, Grandpa.”

“Who are you nagging now?” He
asked, indicating the letter.

“Miss Bush, in Florida...I met her
when we visited Meadvale, do you remember?”

“Oh Americans...does she write
back?”

“Of course Papa, her latest told me
a lot about Sanibel Island...she has just spent a pleasant month
there, and speaks very highly of Pelican Point Cathedral.”

“This speaker...the Harrington
fellow? I don’t mind if you listen to his speech...but I don’t
want you getting involved in any nonsense, d’you hear?”

“Of course not, Grandpa...I never
would, I promise.” She replied, smiling at him, but the old man
could see her intelligence in her eyes. He was proud of all his
grandchildren, but Catherine had most of the brains. Like most young
women nowadays her education was good, but only went so far. He had
paid for both girls, and his daughter in her time, to attend a good
local private school, but they left at the age of fourteen, of
course. Educational standards were very high, and by that stage the
girls knew enough to pass any amount of the old exams in English,
History, French, Latin and Religious studies, but there was no real
emphasis on maths, science or anything remotely useful, as they would
not need such skills. Florence and Chelsea had both more or less
stopped studying when they left school, their lessons in Maidenhood
from Miss Walker enough for them, but his beloved Catherine had read
every book he possessed and anything else she could get her hands on.
She had also made a number of friends on their travels, such as Miss
Bush, and corresponded with them voraciously to the point where Hugh
could legitimately grumble about the cost of postage.

“His beliefs are contrary to the
position of the President, Catherine.”

“I am aware of that Grandpa.”

“Once you are old enough to vote,
you shall be able to express your opinions privately to the ballot
box, but I think it better if we keep our heads down in cases like
this...his views are rather radical.” Hugh continued, trying to
justify a decision he was really a little uncomfortable with. “It
is not a viewpoint I want my family to be associated with.”

“Only if sensible moderation could
ever be described as radical, which it surely cannot, Grandpa.”

“Catherine, don’t bandy words
with me...our glorious leaders have never been too keen on differing
views, and even though the Harrington boy comes from good Reformist
stock, I doubt if he and his friends are as committed to moderation
as you might think they are. In the end, politicians like power, and
they aren’t too choosy about how they get it...and the only thing I
have learnt over the last ninety odd years is that it never pays to
take sides in something that is no business of yours.”

He stomped out again, well aware that
she would probably ignore him, to a certain extent, if she chose to
do so. She was quite as stubborn as her grandmother when she wanted
to be. But Blackstone did have very real concerns. Finding his
granddaughter a husband would not be difficult, but finding her the
right one would be. He was being realistic. Florence’s husband had
been an ideal sort of chap, a young doctor with no local family who
was happy to move in with his in-laws and share their resolutely
quiet approach to modern life. If he had lived, Hugh Blackstone could
have left his family in safe hands. But after the accident he had
problems. His grandson was only twelve. He could not be legally
responsible for his mother and sisters until he was twenty one. So if
Hugh died before then things might get problematic. He also needed to
find a husband for Catherine within five years or she would have to
do her national service. He did not want her getting a reputation as
some sort of activist, because that might put off potential
candidates. And he did not want any trouble with anyone. He had
resolutely avoided it since the day Charles Buckingham first came to
power and he intended to die without troubling the authorities, and
leave his family with the best chance to do the same.

“Ophelia dear, do say if you are
too tired to stay downstairs?” Mena sighed, placing her mitten on
Ophelia’s arm, full of real concern for her niece. She was so
dreadfully pale.

“Oh...I am fine, Auntie Mena...Dr
Robbie says I will be pale and tired until my body brews some more
blood for Angus...who he calls our little vampire.” Ophelia smiled,
not sure if she was speaking out of turn, rather daunted by the
splendour of one of the great drawing rooms within Buckingham Palace.
She was used to the monastic surroundings of her boarding school and
the sun baked simplicity of Greece. But she was glad to be free of
her muzzle, if not her mittens, and to be able to talk to someone
other than Miss Archer. She did not know her aunt, but she had heard
a lot about her.

“Isn’t he hilarious...only Dr
Robbie could talk to a maiden about vampires, of all things?”
Annabel Forbes smiled, with her mitten resting on Ophelia’s knee.
Ophelia was their saviour, the answer to all their prayers, and she
felt the pressure. She was worrying about stupid things like muzzles
and mittens, and diapers, and they were terrified of losing Angus. It
made her feel a little selfish, because she would be rewarded for her
sacrifice. She had been expecting an argument with her father over
the cost of attending the Sorbonne, because unlike Boulogne Ladies
College her scholarship there did not cover her accommodation or
food, but her grandfather had promised to take care of all that and
more. She knew she might not make it in September as planned, but she
was two years ahead of schedule anyway and Angus was certainly a good
reason to delay things. She was helping her own family for goodness
sake. Not to mention putting names to faces and finding out about
where she came from of course. She was taking her grandfather’s
advice and ignoring the boring details.

Brogan Osborne sat at her desk in her
own study writing a letter that she would send to India, Eloise and
Grace. It was her private space, her favourite room in the whole
palace, a gift to her from Sebastian, in one of his weaker moments.
But the palace was their home. She had lived there for twenty five
years, and they had arranged its redecoration together. Both of them
liked doing things together, much to their mutual surprise. It was
not a love affair, not at all like her strange relationship with her
first husband, Harry Trevor, but it had become a partnership. Not an
equal partnership, of course. No Reformist wife had any right to
expect equality. However, over the years, despite his reputation as a
stickler for the doctrine, Sebastian had learned to consult and
include his wife. He appreciated her intelligence, and often asked
her for her point of view on things. She had learned to vocalise her
opinions in an acceptable fashion, and they shared a love for their
family. Most genuine Reformists had a strong sense of family in her
considerable experience. It was the foundation of the doctrine.
Sebastian never did things lightly and she thought he had learned
from the dogmatism of his youth and brought more compassion to his
time as archbishop. As she told her beloved daughters, she was very
lucky. She had been married off twice and each time she had found
contentment. It was all a good Reformist wife could hope for in life.

Madison Harrington was the mistress
of Broomwaters. Since the death of her in-laws, her husband had
inherited the huge mansion that had played such a central role in the
history of Reformism, along with a considerable fortune, and she was
fully expected to run the house as it had always been run in the
past. Her husband kept on the staff of course, and she had the able
and willing assistance of her latest guardian, Miss Hanson, but she
still found it a daunting task. Daniel was a hopeless intellectual
with his head permanently in the clouds. Her left the household to
her, or rather to Miss Hanson and her, preferring to write his
pamphlets and his boring speeches than bother himself with the upkeep
of the house. But it gave Madison something to do and she had set
about it with determination, her eyes firmly on Christmas. It would
be her first without the assistance of her rather formidable
mother-in-law and she intended to make it a good one.

There were so many people to invite
and so many arrangements to be made. Etiquette and propriety were
important in the Republic but essential in Meadvale, so everything
had to be done properly, whilst the Christmas celebrations had
traditions all of its own, regardless of who the guests were. Just
allocating room was a nightmare. Then there were the guardians to
cater for, not to mention the hiring of caterers, planning menus and
such like. But she rather enjoyed it. She felt useful, and spent
every moment she could writing notes and planning the greatest
Broomwaters Christmas ever.

Mena Forbes sensed Alistair’s mood
in seconds. He joined the ladies for tea, late, and although he was
reasonably charming to Ophelia, she could tell that he was angry. In
the end, she was quite grateful when Miss Archer suggested that
Ophelia had been out of bed for long enough and took her upstairs.
Mena went with them, saying that she ought to make sure that her
niece had everything she needed, and Alistair did not disagree. She
felt for Ophelia. She knew what a shock it had been for her when she
first arrived in London, over thirty years before, and although the
circumstances were different she feared the emotions Ophelia would be
going through were much the same.

“Sweetheart, our funny little ways
will seem strange to you at first, but for you it is no bad thing.”
Mena suggested, distracting Ophelia whilst Miss Archer undressed her.
“You need to rest and recuperate, and a quiet night in your
sleeping gown will be just what the doctor ordered, I am sure.”

Downstairs, Forbes fumed at the
disloyalty and impertinence of the younger members of the House. He
did not welcome their interference in his work, and he would not
stand for it. He was the future of Reformism, and after him his son
would be the perfect successor. He would not be challenged by fools
who did not understand the nature of absolute power.

Catherine Baraclough smiled around
her muzzle as her mother buttoned her into her sleeping gown, pausing
only to kiss her on the forehead before she disappeared inside. No
one ever cut corners at Dunroamin, and both girls were well
accustomed to their sleeping gowns. It was not late. Maidens needed
their sleep, and the girls were usually put to bed soon after nine in
the room they had always shared. Florence Baraclough had been brought
up exactly the same way. Her parents believed that they had to be
equipped to live in the modern world, not taught to avoid it. Her
girls were the products of the renaissance, as was she of course. Her
mother sometimes mentioned the old ways but they were just that to
Florence, and her daughters. She left the room as Miss Walker turned
out the light, and headed for her own, ready to go into her own
sleeping gown.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Caroline
Blackstone snapped at her husband downstairs. “Old fool...just how
can listening to David Harrington’s son ever be considered
dangerous? He is Reformist royalty...his father was at the centre of
things and the boy himself is a member of the House...it is quite
harmless.”

“He is talking of drumming up a
campaign for individual votes.” Hugh replied evenly, not rising to
the bait for once. That in itself told his wife that he was serious,
but she still argued with him, of course. It was what they did,
loving every moment of it as always.

“So what? It isn’t 1913...she
isn’t going to throw herself in front of the King’s horse? For
goodness sake, there isn’t even a bloody king anymore. I really
can’t see the sewing circle doing much more than writing a rather
stiff letter and raising a petition in the village, can you?”

“Caroline, at my age we really
don’t need to rock the boat, do we?” Hugh asked, sighing as he
faced reality.

“Oh don’t start all that
again...I think you will outlive all of us...after all we do all the
work, as always. If the government really is worried about the
Alfriston Sewing Circle, this country really is going to the
dogs...now have you taken your pills, you silly old fool?”

“Harrington is bad enough, but
Buckingham is a complete pain in the arse.” Alistair Forbes
snapped, pouring himself another brandy as his son made a face.

“Chatter in the house is hardly
important anymore. Most of the papers don’t even cover it.”
Archie Forbes suggested, not as concerned as his father.

“It is about who they are...it
gives what they say some credence.”

“So warn them off...you are the
President...and you’ve done it before.”

“Oh I would, if I could...but they
are both so squeaky clean you wouldn’t believe it...and Charles
Buckingham may be old but he is a powerful enemy to pick a fight
with...I would not do it lightly even if his son was the devil
incarnate.” Alistair said, with a deep sigh, thinking the problem
through from all sides. “Have you said hello to your cousin yet?”

“Our heathen cousin...no, I let
Annabel swoon over her. Is she behaving herself?”

“So far, and we are rolling out the
red carpet, remember. She is doing us a huge favour at some cost to
her own health in the short term, so the least you can do is be
polite.”

“She is here in God’s love...she
should be grateful, for goodness sake.”

“She will be, in time, believe me.
But let’s get Angus all the help we can first, shall we?”

Renaissance Man

“Growing up as a child in this
great country of ours, we took so much for granted, and still do.”
Richard Buckingham said, his dulcet tones reminding the producer on
the other side of the screen of his father. “But I am a student of
modern history and the achievements of the modern renaissance are
quite extraordinary...it truly was a perfect storm, caused not just
by the idealism of men like Michael Winstanley and my father, but by
the economy and the prevailing political landscape. Never forget that
the initial reforms were introduced on the back of an incredible
popular mandate, and no one in this country wants to throw any of
that away after all the pain and hard work that was done.”

“Surely that is what you want to
do...aren’t you proposing a liberal agenda?” The BBC presenter
asked, listening intently to his headphones as he was told what to
say. “The last liberal to get any sort of clear mandate was David
Lloyd George.”

“Oh no, I am certainly not a
liberal...I was born a Christian Democrat and I will die as one. But
in rejecting the old political disputes, we also stopped being
concerned with what was left and what was right, and started to
concentrate on what the best answer was. In the perfect storm, it was
clearly thought that the ends justified the means. I am quite
prepared to defend my father’s record in that regard, because major
social change must come at a price. In setting up a national service
programme to support the National Health Service and our schools, a
huge amount of women had to be taken into our convents, for various
periods of time, and an organisation had to be created from scratch
to manage the process. I think it is generally accepted that some
mistakes were made...Michael Winstanley certainly accepted that the
snowballing growth of the Church took him by surprise and that as a
result he was too slow to put in place a proper management structure.
Our young women were taken into God’s loving embrace but some of
them were treated too harshly and I believe some still are. We have
the numbers we need and the intake to top that up as Sisters are
released at the end of their period of service. We do not need to put
unnecessary obstacles in their way to leave.”

“So you are accusing the President
of keeping young women in national service for too long?”

“I am not accusing President Forbes
of anything at all...again that is very old politics. Alistair Forbes
has been our President for five years and Prime Minister for twenty
years before that, but that does not mean he can be held responsible
for every little decision taken in every department...that is
preposterous. I am simply raising a number of issues pertaining to
the National Service Bill moving through the House. I am calling for
a debate on issues like this, because we should be able to discuss
things and agree the best course of action without getting into a
slanging match or creating a blame culture. My father changed this
country by refusing to focus on the mistakes of the past and
concentrating on what needed to be done. I fully intend to do exactly
the same.”

“This sounds like the start of a
campaign, Mr Buckingham?”

“Challenging the current leadership
over the details of a bill in the House does not make me a
presidential candidate, it makes me a good MP, I hope. I am not a
rebel, or indeed an opponent of President Forbes, I am simply trying
to identify areas where we can do better as a party and as a
government and as a country. Our people trust us because we make the
right decisions for the good of everyone. That is all I am trying to
achieve. Nothing more.”

Rest and Recuperation

“So, you are feeling a little
stronger?” James Miller asked, squeezing his granddaughters arm as
they strolled through the gardens at Buckingham Palace.

“I think so, it’s hard to
tell...I am hardly allowed to do anything for myself, Grandpa.”
Ophelia replied honestly, her weak smile hidden by her mantle. But he
saw it in her eyes. Miller was used to looking at women’s eyes when
he could, because they were so expressive when there was nothing else
of them to see.

“Good, you need to rest...I am sure
Miss Archer is taking good care of you.”

“She is treating me like an invalid
maiden, according to Cousin Annabel, who thinks she is being very
kind to me.”

“Then I am sure she is, Ophelia.”

“She makes me sleep in a body bag
and won’t even let me use my hands to read, Grandpa.”

“Sweet Pea, this is how girls like
you live here, I thought you realised that...”

“Grandpa, I am only here to help
Angus...I can hardly embarrass Uncle Alistair locked away in here...”

“But we believe this is the right
way for you to live, Sweet Pea...to not do so would offend people.”
Miller lied, certainly as far as his own faith was concerned, but she
had to believe it was true. “Miss Archer is being kind...I asked
Alistair to ensure that she was patient with you, and remembered who
you are and why you are here.”

“Can’t I come and stay with you?
I want to meet Grandma and my other aunts and uncles?” Ophelia
begged, trying not to sound too desperate.

“She is visiting her family Sweet
Pea, she will be home soon...and you can come and stay then, if the
doctor’s will let you stray so far from the hospital...it is not
forever, Ophelia...and I did warn you that it would be very difficult
for you...this is a different culture.”

Ophelia did not argue. She did not
see the point in the end, because no one would listen to her. He had
warned her, but it was impossible not to help her little cousin when
only she could, and she was getting no credit for that. Payment yes,
but no credit and no consideration as far as she could see.

“Open,” Miss Archer said, as soon
as she returned to her room after her stroll in the gardens.

“Oh not yet...I am not going
anywhere...so why does it matter up here?” Ophelia turned her back
on the guardian, longing to rip her mantle off, but prevented from
doing so by her mittens. “Can’t you take these stupid things off
and let me...ouch...I am burning...what is...are you doing that to
me?”

“Open Ophelia.” Miss Archer
repeated as the girl whirled around to face her. She had some sort of
remote control in her hands.

“How...ouch...don’t do
that...please.”

“Open,” Miss Archer said again,
staring at the frightened maiden. Slowly she stepped forwards and
removed her mantle, and the maiden opened her mouth. “Obedience is
essential in a maiden, Ophelia.” Miss Archer said after fitting the
muzzle. “I do not take any pleasure in punishing you like
that...the punishment chip is rather cruel and impersonal, but also
effective, and I cannot have you disobeying me like that, dear.
Please take this as your final warning.”

Morning Tea in Alfriston

“Miss Cameron is so moody
sometimes.” Chelsea sighed as Miss Walker poured her a cup of tea.
Her sister, who had only just finished her morning lesson and was
still wearing her muzzle, raised a quizzical eyebrow as her mother
inserted the small key to release her.

“She told you off?” Miss Walker
asked, immediately a little concerned as she put the pot back on the
table.

“Not me specifically Miss Walker,
she was cross with everyone.” Chelsea replied, minding her manners.
She did not want to keep anything from her guardian or her mother,
because she was sure Miss Cameron would tell them anyway and it was
much better to confess, but she did feel a little hard done by.
“Harriet told a joke and we all laughed...and Miss Cameron did not
feel it was appropriate.”

“Having all four of you sleepover
is a little much, I fear.” Florence suggested as Catherine’s
muzzle popped out into her hands and her eldest daughter stretched
her jaw muscles.

“It was only a moment, and we all
shushed each other...” Chelsea offered in her defence.

“Oh Chelsea...you must write and
apologise as soon as you have finished your lesson, dear.” Florence
groaned, seeing the truth in Chelsea’s suddenly downcast
expression, and imagining what her father would say.

“Yes Mama...she used that awful
remote.” Chelsea admitted, looking sheepish. “She turned it all
the way up to four and we were all crying and begging for her
forgiveness...and I hardly made a noise, I promise.”

Catherine listened to the full story
until her dear younger sister had finished her tea, and Miss Walker
muzzled her so that she could listen to her lessons. Then she moved
to her writing desk, feeling sorry for Chelsea but also surprised
that someone like Miss Cameron had used the girls’ punishment
chips. Everyone had them, of course. All females in Britain had to be
fitted with the chips at the age of eleven, because the devices held
their Female Identification Documentation, the old FID’s that used
to have to be carried everywhere in paper form, as well as the
punishment module. It was not something anyone Catherine knew used
very often, her grandfather considered it crude and possibly cruel,
much preferring Miss Walker to use the dreaded paddle if the girls
ever transgressed, which they seldom ever had to be fair. Juliette
Biltcliffe was the youngest daughter of old family friends who lived
two doors along the lane, and Miss Cameron had been with the
Biltcliffe’s for many years. Catherine herself was good friends
with Juliette’s older sister Verity, who was now married to a local
farmer’s son, and had spent many hours in Miss Cameron’s care
without driving her to such lengths with regards to corrective
discipline. But she had been punished by her chip, twice, by the nuns
at school, when the whole class earned castigation for reasons she
could not quite remember. She recalled a horrific burning sensation
across both buttocks, similar to the vile after-effects of a sound
paddling but more instantaneous, as if she was suddenly on fire. She
had been told, although she had no idea how anyone would have found
out the facts, that the nun had set her remote controller to three.
That had been enough to have the whole class of teenagers in floods
of tears, so Catherine imagined that four would be dreadful, and felt
sorry for poor Chelsea. Although she had also faced a rare paddling
from Miss Walker when she got home from school of course, so she
wondered if her sister might suffer more later on in the day. Her
grandfather was not a particularly strict legal guardian, and Miss
Walker was the best guardian any girl could wish for, but they both
believed in basic discipline, especially in front of other people.

Hugh Blackstone was not living behind
a facade. He was not a passionate Reformist at all, and indeed his
faith was at best weak, but he was a realist who had plotted a safe
course through a problematic forty years for a family man. He was not
really a campaigner at heart, although he had got involved in several
campaigns during his working life. He had abhorred the way his female
colleagues had been treated when the National Health reforms were
imposed, but his real fury had come later when it became clear that
the nuns being sent to his hospital were barely trained and next to
useless. He recognised that there were more of them, and there was a
return to the days of care and compassion the old matrons and their
nurses provided for patients, but the nuns at Eastbourne General were
better at hospital corners than they were in triage. Blackstone was a
passionate doctor who wanted to save lives, and he got most annoyed
when his patients were put at risk by ignorant nuns. He had hated
what was done in the name of reform at the start, but he reasoned
that there was nothing he could do about that, after saving his
beloved Caroline from a convent of course. But he campaigned
vociferously for better trained nuns, and urged his colleagues to do
the same. So, he was not too concerned about his granddaughters, or
indeed his daughter, facing a little corporal punishment to keep them
on the straight and narrow. He had never dared do it to Caroline, as
he suspected she would pop one of her endless pills into his tea if
he ever attempted it, but together they had brought their girls up to
respect the doctrine. It made sense to such a straightforward
character. Reformism was not about to go away. His girls had to live
in the world as it was, not as it had once been, and he saw no point
in filling their heads with anything else.

Miss Walker did paddle Chelsea. Only
twelve strokes, but it was important to support her colleague.
Maidens had to learn to control their emotions. Hugh Blackstone
reminded them all at dinner that the family had a reputation to
maintain, and that he would not tolerate such behaviour in front of
friends and neighbours. His wife called him a pompous old fool, and
Chelsea kissed him on the cheek, before promising that she would
never do anything like that again, having already thanked Miss Walker
for taking such good care of her.

Medical Reports

“So there is no
possibility...however remote?” Alistair Forbes asked, listening
intently to the response. He had never met the doctor concerned, but
he was supposed to be a specialist in the field. It seemed highly
unlikely that he would make such a basic mistake.

“None at all Sir, this blood type
is very rare but the father would need to be O or O
negative...anything else is simply just not possible in the
circumstances. Of course there might be some mistake with the old
records?”

“I doubt it...the man concerned was
wounded in action in Syria, I doubt he would still be walking around
if they got his blood type wrong...don’t you?”

“Then he is not her father Sir, of
that I am sure.”

Alistair Forbes put down the
telephone and considered his next course of action with care. He
could never admit his mistake of course. Even for a President, rape
was a crime. But he had covered his tracks as well as anyone could,
with the father paid off and threatened into silence, the wife and
sister in convents for life and the girl concerned long lying with
the devil, so he did not see how the trail could ever lead back to
him, but he wanted to be sure. It had been an aberration, a mistake.
He had lost control at the time, the only time in his life that he
had truly exposed himself to danger. He had always been able to
procure women, at a price, even as Prime Minister, and he had done
so, often, but it was usually planned and more or less totally safe.
But that one time the opportunity presented itself to him and he
could not stop himself taking advantage. Fate had ensured that his
one blemish would come back to haunt him but he could still control
the situation, he thought, as long as he was cautious. And he usually
was as it happened, in his own interests.

“Come in,” Forbes said, answering
a sharp rap on his office door. “Ah James...good of you to come.”

“Mr President,” James Miller
nodded his head and took the chair on the other side of the desk from
Forbes. Their mutual dislike was instinctive, but honed hard over
many years of working together. Neither of them could be bothered to
pretend otherwise.

“I have news for you, old chap.”

“News?”

“Yes...following Ophelia’s
tests.”

“Yes, tests which seem to have
included the guardian using her chip, I gather.”

“Oh was she punished? I was not
aware...”

“I am her legal guardian whilst she
is here...I really should have been consulted at the very least,
Alistair.” Miller said, keeping his temper.

“And would you have objected?”

“Of course not, but I could have
explained it to her before she was punished...she is helping us after
all, and as her grandfather I feel doubly responsible for her.”

“Oh well...that is just it you
see.” Forbes smiled, and Miller knew it was a dangerous smile.

“Excuse me?”

“James, you are not her
grandfather...or rather, your son is not her father. Her blood group
is rare, as you know as well as I do old man, and he cannot be her
father...it is a scientific impossibility.”

“But she is a perfect match for
Angus?” Miller was astonished, but old diplomats never let their
surprises show.

“Yes, she is...a pure coincidence,
the doctor believes...and a lucky one for us...but this does change
things rather...and certainly absolves you of all responsibility for
the girl, of course. I wanted to tell you myself...I realised it
would be...upsetting for you...and I could not let the doctors tell
you cold...as it were.”

“Thank you, Mr President...but
whatever the parental situation is, Euan is her legal guardian and I
am his representative as far as Ophelia is concerned...she remains my
responsibility whilst she is here. She has been brought up by my son,
and in any practical sense he is her father, and I am her
grandfather.”

“Oh no...I don’t think that is
wise, James.” Forbes grinned again, lolling back in his chair. “I
am having social services look into it of course, but I have applied
to be made her legal guardian myself, to protect her and Angus. You
have hardly seen the girl after all, so it is not as if you have a
particularly close bond...”

“I convinced her to come here...and
I am fond of her Alistair...I am happy to continue as her legal
guardian...”

“But James, we both know that any
investigation into her background will reveal your involvement...you
have to let me sit on this for you...do be sensible.”

“I acted to protect my son...”

“Of course you did...and I let it
slide at the time. But if you push yourself into the frame here, I
may not be able to keep your name out of things, James. Is that a
risk you are prepared to take?” Forbes asked, with another smile.
But he also decided to tie up the remaining loose end; the other
grandfather who could have a claim on Ophelia. Buying him off was not
sure enough and the President decided to seek a more permanent
solution to the problem.

Bearers of Bad Tidings

“Open,” Miss Archer barked and
Ophelia hurried to obey. Miss Archer nodded her approval and smiled
as she slipped the muzzle into place.

“She is responding well to you,
Miss Archer.” Mena noted, keeping her tone as even as possible.

“She is a maiden just the same as
any other, Ma’am...I am sure you remember your own training...a
firm hand is sometimes necessary to help them find God’s love.”

“Of course...and I shall talk to
Ophelia during our stroll...but I had hoped that she would be able to
talk to me.”

“I had clear instructions, Ma’am.”

“Oh...I see...then we shall do our
best to cope.” Mena replied, before taking Ophelia’s arm and
leading her outside. It was a fine clear morning in London, with the
gentle hum of traffic reaching them over the high walls. Mena liked
the gardens. It was quite private, apart from staff, and she was only
wearing a mantle. Miss Archer had gone a lot further with Ophelia,
putting her in her cloak and mittens, as well as the muzzle, veils
and mantle. She led her young companion down the well-worn footpath,
away from the old house. She did not speak until she was sure that
they were quite alone.

“Ophelia darling...I have some
news...”

In the end, she was quite grateful
that Miss Archer had muzzled the child, and dressed her to reduce her
mobility. It took all her strength to stop Ophelia pulling away from
her.

“Is this line secure?” Euan
Miller said after a moment or two of silence.

“One should never assume that...but
I believe it is.” James Miller replied, his voice no more than a
whisper.

“I knew it was a possibility.”

“I am sorry?”

“Erica was raped in London...and
she believed her father knew all about it...maybe even arranged
it...that was why I decided to get her out, right then and there.
When she fell pregnant so soon...although we had...although we were
sexually active soon after we left England...I always knew that there
was a chance Ophelia was not mine.”

“Great...this could not have turned
out better, could it? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I don’t know...maybe because
you let me down...let Erica down...over her mother and sister. And
her blood matched so I thought it was ok, being so rare. It convinced
me I was her father.”

“I did not let Erica down. My
people were going to get them, but the police were already there. The
father knew that his wife had helped Erica get out of the country...I
was damned lucky to get you out before the authorities arrived, and
Forbes made me pay for that ten times over, believe me.”

“So...what happens now?”

“He says he is involving social
services, but they will do what he tells them, I am sure. He will be
her legal guardian and I have been warned off...I am not even allowed
to see her.”

“Does she know?”

“Mena had to tell her.”

“Can you do anything?”

“I don’t know...I am working on
it, but no guerrilla tactics, Euan...you are too old and it would be
impossible. Your name is still on the wanted list. She is in no
immediate danger because Alistair really does love little Angus. As
long as his treatment continues she will stay either at Great Ormond
Street or the Palace. I have one idea, but it will be a slow burner.
I will try to get out to Skiathos to see you, in a week or two.”